Idle Threats from Beyond the Grave
by Delylah
Summary: Spike finally met his end at the hands of someone bigger and badder. Upon entering the nether realm, he was required to send one last letter to the land of the living. Based upon the "Dead Letters Home" challenge. Rated PG-13 for language


Xander, ****

Idle Threats from Beyond the Grave

By Delylah

Disclaimers: I own none of these characters. Joss, Mutant Enemy, Fox, UPN, and the WB own them all. Blahdiblahdiblah, yaddayaddayadda.

I stumbled across "Dead Letters Home" at http://www.dymphna.net/deadletters/ recently and decided to write this little piece.

The concept (found on the aforementioned site, visit it, it's neat):

take a character. 

kill him/her. 

let him/her write one last letter. it can be to the world. it can be to a particular person. it can be to no one. 

s/he's died, and this is all that remains. 

I chose Spike. This is what he wrote.

Xander,

Let's get this straight first: you're a wanker. You always have been, you always will be. It's who you are. I don't like you. And I know you never liked me.

Now, having said that, being a wanker is at least better than being a pouf. Take Angel for instance. All moaning and groaning and "woe is me, I have a soul, now if I only had a brain". Bloody well makes me want to heave. It's useless and what Buffy or anyone else ever saw in him is beyond me.

You, on the other hand - you're the kind of guy I didn't mind having around in a fight, as long as I was far, far away from the demolition ball you were swinging. When lives are on the line, you don't back down. I can respect that. You've never let Buffy down. You've never left her in the lurch like all the other men in her life have, including myself seeing as how I'm sitting here dead now. And she's the reason I'm writing you this letter.

Actually, all of them are. The witches, the ex-demon, the mystical-glowy-key-in-a-kid, and the Slayer. It's up to you now, to watch over them. All I ever really lent to the mix was a little brawn and 126 years of vampire know-how, and of course dashing good looks. The Big Bad reputation didn't hurt none either. But you are their heart. They need you, all of them. You are the voice of sanity among a cluster of five of the strongest, most unique (translation: temperamental) women I've ever had the woe of knowing. You are their anchor. I only hope you don't fuck it up.

I've watched you watching the three of them: Anya, Willow and Buffy. I have to tell ya, mate, you're treading on dangerous ground. Anya loves you, even if she isn't able to express it very well when you're not shaggin' like bunnies. I've seen it in the way she looks at you, and I wouldn't want to be in your shoes if you hurt her. She probably still has D'Hoffryn's number tucked away in her head somewhere. Keep that in mind before you break her heart.

Red, now she's treading on dangerous ground herself. Takin' too many shortcuts, dabbling in stuff she knows she ought not. She may wind up getting you all killed someday. They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, man. It doesn't matter how talented she is, one day she'll have to pay the price, and she'll take the rest of you with her. You have to make her see. I tried but she wouldn't listen to me. I hope she'll listen to you.

And then there's Buffy. You can't fool me. I've seen the way you look at her, the way you bristled any time I touched her. You looked at her the same way when you were still in high school, the first time I saw the three of you, dancing. You may think you're over it, but you're not there yet. And you need to get there, quick. Buffy loves you like a brother and always has. Don't throw that away. Bitches come and go, but family is forever, and to Buffy you will always be family.

Y'know, I'm not sure if there's a hell or not. I don't know what happens when I get done with this letter. They only told me I had to write it before I could do anything else. But I promise you, if you fuck this up, if you let anything happen to them, you'll think Hell is a bloody picnic compared to what I'll do to you. And somehow, I'll find a way. Make no mistake.

Tell Buffy and the Little Bit that I love them. Hell, tell them all. I'm dead, it can't embarrass me anymore. And if you weasel out of it, I'll know.

Never your pal,

William the Bloody, 

AKA Spike

P.S. There are a few railroad spikes laying around my crypt. Find 'em, keep 'em, and next time you run across Darla, shove 'em up her ass before you stake her. She'll know why.


End file.
